Scopophobia

A short story about a boy who has an eyeball living in his room...

 

I have an eyeball living in my room.

It’s roughly the size of my head, and it’s been there for as long as I can remember. It appears in different parts of my room every day: on the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor, never two spots in a row. It has a hazel iris, just like mine, and always seems to be integrated with whatever spot it’s in. It just sits there all day, moving its pupil aimlessly around, not focusing on anything. 

Even as a kid, I never felt the need to touch it, prod at it, or even throw something in its direction. An innate feeling told me to never to make contact with it or even acknowledge it. I’ve tried to talk to my parents and friends about it, but I only got strange looks and trips to the psychiatrist. I learned to never mention it.

My life went as normally as any other kids. I went to school, hung out with friends, and did teenager things. I stayed out of the eyeball’s way, and it stayed out of mine (most of the time).

But that changed in the 10th grade.

While I was gone from school, the eyeball had moved from its spot on the ceiling to the entrance of my room, and in my tiredness, I failed to notice it.

I stepped on it.

I felt the firm yet squishy texture of the eyeball as my foot descended on it. Panicked, I quickly tried to remove my foot, but I ended up slipping on its thin layer of mucus and falling to the floor. Before I even got up, I could hear the slick of the eyeball, moving around frantically trying to find out what had caused its pain. When I managed to lift my head and look at it, the reddening orb landed on me. The eye and I had a staring contest that I was bound to lose. Breaking into a cold sweat, I realized this was the first time in many years since I last looked at the eyeball closely. I could see its every detail, its pulsing veins, a shine from the window, and especially its dark, empty pupil. The brown iris made small movements, but its menacing stare would not leave mine.

It wasn’t until my mom walked by did I move from my spot. I quickly got up and slammed the door, not caring what she thought at that moment.

I had to get away from that eyeball.

For the rest of the day, I moved around the house, avoiding my own room. No matter where I went though, I could still feel its stare.

I slept on the couch that night.

The next morning I wore the same clothes I had slept in, despite the protest of my mother, and went to school. Throughout the day, I almost forgot about the eyeball. I allowed the droning teachers, incomprehensive literature, and confusing math concepts to distract me. But I still had to face the problem. When I got home, I stood in front of my door, which had stayed shut since yesterday. When I hesitantly opened it, my eyes fixed upon a monstrosity.

A huge eyeball the size of a small child planted itself in the wall directly opposite of me. On the wall to the left sat the original, smaller eyeball. Both of them casually looked about the room, not acknowledging my presence. Once more, I slammed the door and didn’t return for the rest of the day.

Again I had to go to school with the same outfit I had worn the day before. My friends noticed my stinking up clothes and disturbed state, and I realized that I would have to face the eyeballs or be sent to the psychiatrist.

I went into my room again, this time the giant eyeball sat in the middle of my room while the smaller one was on the ceiling. I quickly changed clothes and avoided my room for the rest of the day, but I had to return to sleep in my own bed.

The night was terrible. Even though I avoided looking at the eyeballs, I could hear them moving around. Sometimes the moist slick of the swiveling would stop, and I knew that they were looking at each other, perhaps communicating with one another.

            The next morning, I woke up to find both eyeballs in the middle of the floor. I was careful to avoid them, but then it happened. As I was putting on my pants, I slipped and landed on the huge eyeball. This time, both eyeballs frantically swiveled around until their pupils stopped on me. Wiping the moisture off me, I ran out of my room.

****

For the next couple weeks, they just kept multiplying. In my agitation, the more I tried to avoid touching them, the more I somehow managed to. Avoiding contact with them became impossible because there were too many.

My room was now covered with eyeballs. All sizes from as small as a golf ball to as big as I. They all twitched, turned, and spun around to look at me and at each other. And each time they did, I felt a panic of the unknown. I became frantic. I needed to tell someone, but I also did not want to be sent to the crazy farm. I secluded myself from the people around me, afraid that I would blurt out my secret. But in my isolation, I could still hear rumors floating about.

“Why hasn’t Timothy been talking to us?”

“Does he have a problem with us?”

“Back in middle school he wouldn’t stop talking about eyeballs.”

“Oh, so there’s a problem… with him.”

“Do you think he’s going crazy?”

School had been my safe haven from the constant staring, but now it was becoming just as bad as my room. I could feel people whispering and looking in my direction. I had no one to turn to.

 But then, someone came to me.

“Is it true that you have a room full of eyeballs? Can I go see?”

I was completely stunned by this sudden acknowledgment of my problem. In my shock, I forgot my resolve to keep my secret and spouted everything. By the end of my story, I was afraid that he would run away and tell others about his encounter with the crazy kid. But, surprisingly, he said, “Cool, I’ll come over tonight and see.”

Before I could even protest, he was gone. I didn’t even know who that person was.

After school, the stranger followed me home. I learned that his name was Jeffrey, but I didn’t plan on learning anything more than that. Even though I shouted at him to go away, he just brushed me off and asked which was the direction to my house. I was too exhausted from stress and lack of sleep, so I resigned and led the way in silence. When we got to my home, there was the usual “Oh, hello!” “What’s your name?” “Are you a friend of Timothy?” from my mom, and the “Hi!” “I’m Jeffrey,” “It’s nice to meet you,” from my stalker.

 I refused to go to my room: I didn’t go there until I was forced to go to sleep there. So for the rest of the day, we sat in the sitting room and did homework. We didn’t attempt any form of conversation. When darkness finally fell and the clock struck 12, I knew it was time to go to bed. Jeffrey followed me as he had done earlier, and we stood at the entrance of my room. Sucking in my breath, I opened the door.

As usual, I was greeted by the moist turning of eyeballs. They frantically whirled around as I stepped into the room and onto the eyeballs on the floor, which swerved unhappily under my feet. They also turned to look at Jeffrey, who also stepped on the eyeballs. But he was blissfully unaware.

“They’re in here, right?”

Hesitantly, I said yes, and he nodded.

“Well, let’s just go to sleep then.”

I was too surprised to speak. I knew he couldn’t see them. Nobody else saw them. Wasn’t he going to question me more? Wasn’t he going to doubt me and call me a liar? Instead, he pulled out his sleeping bag, laid it over the floor of eyeballs, and tucked himself in. In complete disbelief and resignation, I followed in suit, and soon we were both sleeping.

The next morning the eyeballs were gone.

I couldn’t believe it. I looked around in wonder. I couldn’t comprehend this feeling of not being stared at. I could see the color of my wall, the air was no longer filled with the sound of eyeballs, and everything was completely still. I was so entranced by this peace that I didn’t notice Jeffrey waking up and starring at me.

The look on my face must have been something to behold because Jeffrey inquired, “Are they gone now?”

I nodded in reply.

“How did you know?” I found myself asking.

He shrugged. “Have you ever had someone sleep over?”

When I thought about it, I never allowed anyone else in my room except my parents, who I knew never saw the eyeballs, and I’ve always insisted that sleepovers be held at other people’s houses. I shook my head and Jeffery gave a nod of approval.

“Well, you’re lucky you had eyeballs. I had a room full of mouths.” 

Author's Note

A story idea that I've had for a while. Please be sure to give me lots of criticism on what you think!